When Fireflies Die
by Soulhearts
Summary: It had only been two weeks since they'd come to take him, his father raging the whole time and violently throwing things when two sharply dressed social workers had explained why Dean was being removed from his care; but it had been three years since the divorce, since Dean Winchester had seen his mother and brother. Trigger warnings inside.
1. A Paper Heart Homecoming

**TRIGGER WARNINGS:  
Mentions of abuse and neglect.  
Please read at own discretion.**

* * *

 _ **Chapter One:**_

 _A Paper Heart Homecoming_

Here he was. Finally. He'd dreamed about this moment for years, but now it had arrived, sixteen-year-old Dean Henry Winchester wished he was anywhere _except_ here. In a way it was a bit strange, it was something he'd desperately wanted for so long, yet he'd never expected it to actually happen. In one hand he carried a dark green, army duffel-bag, the worn-down sack containing everything he owned, the other hand, badly bandaged―his own handiwork of course―he cradled to his chest, though he still wasn't entirely sure he'd managed to get out all the little pieces of glass from when the empty beer bottle had shattered upon impact. It had only been two days since they'd come to take him, his father raging the whole time and violently throwing things when the two well dressed social workers had explained why Dean was being removed from his care. His father's violence had been beyond what Dean had ever seen before, it had been something akin to one of his nightmares, but there was relief tied to the memory too, though he still half believed it all a dream.

Except that was all in the past. Now, he was _here_ , standing upon a wide porch in front of an unfamiliar house in the summer heat, an entirely different nightmare of confusion awaiting him.

A serious social worker stood beside him, a different one from those who'd taken him away from his dad and dumped him in that boys home for two weeks. Living there had been heaven in comparison to living with his dad, but he'd been told right from the beginning that this was going to happen eventually. He was always going to be dragged to this house to await his verdict and they'd simply ignored him when he'd pleaded them not to. He hadn't wanted to go through that familiar rejection, not again, not needlessly. They'd always brushed him off, saying his mother wasn't going to reject him or push him away, she loved him, she had to, but Dean had known their words held uncertainty. They just didn't want another kid in the system, and that was all he really was to anyone at this point. Honestly, he wasn't sure why he hadn't run away from the boys home, it had been a dog eat dog world behind the backs of the carers, but Dean had stayed, some tiny lingering thread of hope telling him to wait it out. He'd been constantly torn between wanting to leave the home and wanting to wait out the two weeks so he could finally get a proper answer. The issue now was that he was simply here to await a 'yes' or 'no', and he wasn't ready to deal with either of those answers, especially not from _her_.

His social worker's perfectly manicured hand was poised to knock on the soft pastel-blue door. She was dressed in a matching grey skirt and blouse with feet clad in lacquered tan shoes, red hair tied into a high bun. She was far more appropriately dressed for the summer heat than he was; he'd thrown on practically every piece of clothing he could find and stuffed the rest in his duffel bag, it hadn't mattered if it was dirty, covered in blood or smelled like alcohol, he wasn't leaving any more clothes behind. He didn't have many as it was and he'd stolen most of his clothes from thrift shops and poorly secured stores anyway, his dad certainly hadn't bought him any and he still vividly recalled the time he'd gotten a good sock to the gut when he'd stolen one of his father's shirts.

The woman next to him―Naomi, he'd learned her name was―rapped on the door three times, waiting until she heard the soft pad of shoes from within before she turned to the sixteen-year-old beside her, a quaint smile on her face that Dean couldn't help but feel was insincere. This was just her job. To his dad he was a source of income, to this lady he was part of her job. Once upon a time he'd been someone's child, but that notion had been brutally bashed out of his head long ago, mostly by his dad and his own self-hatred and doubt.

"Dean," she handed him a business card with her number printed on it, resting a cool, reassuring hand on his forearm, which he instinctually flinched at. "It's time."

He nodded, a huff of nerves extending his breath as he glanced hesitantly at the front door, the padding of soft shoes from inside getting ever closer. Quickly, he looked down, his eyes coming to focus on the little black numbers printed on Naomi's business card, already knowing that he'd never call her, not even if his situation became dire. He was never going back to another home, but this was going to be the first time he'd seen his mother in three years and Dean just didn't know what to _do_ with that information. Were he a computer, he surely would've short-circuited by now, probably would've exploded like a hot-pocket left in the microwave for too long. How was he supposed to behave? What was expected of him in this situation? His mind saw only a fuzzy haze, like the black, white and grey that TV's made when you hit the wrong button.

He wasn't about to admit it aloud, but he was scared. Not the kind of fear he'd felt when his dad got a hold on him during a particularly nasty rage, but the kind he'd felt every time he'd picked up the phone and tried to call his mother or Sam. That fear of rejection, that twist of pain inside his gut. It was irrational, he knew that, because his mother had basically rejected him already, so what was the purpose of harbouring such false hope? It would only fall through again and he'd wind up back at square one. Yet still, it sat in his chest like a cocoon in a nest of wispy gold and no matter how hard he tried to squash it, it came back just as strong as before.

Naomi smiled at him again, her perfectly white teeth proving how much pride she placed on her appearance as Dean was struck by how familiar the whole scenario felt. Every time he'd run from home, some pretty little police woman had brought him back and told him to make peace with his father, and his dad was always standing there, always looking like the perfect father with his hair combed back, his face freshly shaven and teeth clean so there was no trace of gin on his breath. Dean had never been fooled though, not even once. Not when his gaze had looked upon his dad's smiling face, knowing that as soon as the door shut behind him, his head would go flying into something. Except, he wasn't at his dad's anymore, this time he was being dumped on his mom and, somehow, he was going to have to repress the knowledge that she didn't want him here. He was going to have to pretend that he didn't know she hadn't given him up so she could go live a peaceful, happy life with her _other_ son, the one who didn't remind her of the man she'd once married and her failed relationship with him.

"Try to move forward with your life, okay?" Naomi continued, her smile widening minutely. "It's not good to hold onto the past."

Dean bit back the brutish reply that formed in his head and smiled bitterly, avoiding her gaze. He didn't need a pep-talk, he just needed to get out of this town and start his own life somewhere new, because it had been three years since his parents split and he was tired of living unwanted. After the papers had all been signed, his mother, Mary, had taken his little brother Sam, and his dad, John, had taken him. At thirteen he'd been assured by the both of them that he'd be able to visit his mother on the odd occasion and Sam would come over for visits, but it had taken less than six months for him to realise that all those words had just been empty promises and lies. John had become nothing more than a violent, raging alcoholic since he and Mary had divorced. He hadn't been able to hold a steady job down or manage even the smallest kind of schedule in his life, which only served to fuel his irrational, violent fury. His mother had promised to call him, but she never had. She'd promised to be there for him, but she'd never answered his calls or replied to his voice mails, not even when he'd cried into the receiver and begged her to pick up. Where had she been when his dad was kicking the living shit out of him, when his dad was blaming _him_ for his failed marriage, where had she been then? Dean knew the answer to that question now. His mom had been here, living her 'apple-pie' life. The perfect puzzle-piece kind of life where Dean was a piece from another set, not permitted to fit anywhere in his mother's new happiness.

At the sound of the door latch unlocking, Dean was yanked out of his thoughts and Naomi looked up, reapplying her professional smile as the front door creaked open, a blonde head of curls appearing with a smile of her own.

"Mrs. Winchester?"

Naomi, the first to speak, addressed his mother with ease as Dean's hammering heart beat audibly in his ears.

"Yes?"

At the sound of her oh-so-familiar voice, his heartbeat increased two-fold and he didn't miss the way her eyes widened as they landed on his thin frame and bruised face.

"It is my understanding that you are the mother to Dean Winchester―?"

Naomi didn't get to finish her sentence this time, Mary suddenly stepped out onto the porch and uttered his name with wide-eyed disbelief.

"Dean?" She murmured into the warm afternoon, taking a few stumbling steps in his direction.

Unsure of what to do and how to play his part, Dean simply stood there, arms hanging limply by his sides as he allowed her to put on this show of affection. He was highly aware of how he looked. His hair was dirty and scruffy, and his left eye black and still a little swollen from John's last tirade, so he squirmed a little under her gaze and kept his head down.

"Dean?" She tried again, her voice cracking with emotion as she tried to catch his eye. "Baby, is it really you?" Her hand, reaching out, landing on his arm before he violently jerked back, a habitual reaction to anyone touching him without prior notice.

Naomi didn't miss the exchange, nor the way Mary drew back in shock when Dean reacted so scared to her touch, the boy's eyes springing wide open with more than a remnant of fear. The middle-aged social worker pulled a crooked smile and gave a little cough, a feeling of sympathy washing over as Mary turned her wide-eyed attention back to the red-headed lady on her doorstep.

"Perhaps we could take this inside?" She suggested, cocking an eyebrow and gesturing towards the open door.

Mary nodded, her eyes suddenly refusing to return to Dean. He knew how this would pan out, but it didn't stop him from not wanting to feel that cruel sting of rejection. Maybe that was why he remained so quiet, hoping that if she didn't hear his voice, she wouldn't push him away like last time. It was a stupid thought, but he clung to it none the less. This was all just a sequence that had to play out before Dean was shipped back to a home where he'd finally do what he had been too cowardly to do before.

The blonde gestured towards the entrance and Dean followed quietly behind Naomi as they made their way inside the cool house, Mary bringing up the rear and closing the door behind them.

"We just had a new air-conditioner installed last week, so it should be nice and cold in here, and my husband won't be home from work until five-thirty. Sam has football practice on Tuesdays after school so he won't be home until then either, oh, and I baked some muffins, would either of you like one?" She babbled, leading them through to the kitchen where the smell of sweet scented treats tickled their noses.

"Thank you," Naomi smiled tightly, raising a hand, "but no."

"Dean?" Mary turned back to him again, a little more hesitantly than before.

He shook his head, pressing his lips together tightly. He really didn't want her charity and he hated the lingering pity that he saw in her gaze.

"Mrs. Winchester," Naomi started anew, popping her black briefcase on the table as she steeled herself for the nitty-gritty turmoil that she knew was coming.

"Ah, it's Campbell now." Dean's mother interjected, deliberately avoiding his eyes. "I reverted to my maiden name."

"Very well, Mrs. Campbell," she nodded. "I suspect you may know why I'm here, but to clarify, I'm here to talk with you about taking over custody of your son, Dean."

Dean watched silently from the corner of the room as the two women drew seats opposite each other and Naomi explained his current situation. Most of the talking he zoned out. He didn't need to hear what he'd been through in someone else's words. Explaining even a little of it to the authorities had been hard enough, and it was all made so much worse when he factored in how happy she'd been with Sam and her new husband. How could they live like this when he'd been suffering so? Oh, that's right, he was just an unnecessary cog that jammed up her perfect clock.

"Is… is John in custody?" He heard his mother interject, the sound sending a spike of heartbreak through Dean's chest. Her voice was just as he'd remembered it, and he suddenly found his mind casting back through a grey haze of memories because of it. He could faintly remember a time when his family had actually been happy, a time when he'd not known how much anger his father possessed or how cold his life would end up being.

"Ah, no," the Naomi replied, a tenseness in the sound. "At this stage there doesn't seem to be enough against him, but the investigation is under way so I'm sure he will be soon."

Dean had to force himself not to roll his eyes. Naomi was obviously putting her faith in false gods. There was simply no way his dad was going to let himself go to prison, John could be a professional con-artist if he so chose, he was very persuasive. If he were a worm, Dean was sure he would be able to wiggle his way right off a hook! Neither of them knew John like he did. Dean knew his dad would find away out of this and all he wanted was to be as far away from him as possible when the trial was over, because if he wasn't, he was more than sure that John would come after him, come and try to take him back all for the sake of revenge. It was Dean's fault after all. _He_ was the one who'd been caught out in his lies, not John. Dean had tried so hard not to let the world see, but it got harder when spring turned to summer―the bruises became more difficult to hide, especially since his dad had decided he needed one on his face this year.

"The black eye on my son's face isn't enough?" Mary's voice cut through as though she were reading his mind, startling him as she voiced his thoughts.

Dean unconsciously reached for his face, touching his eye with his bandaged hand before he even realised what he was doing. The bruise on his face served as a reminder every time he caught a glimpse of his reflection. It reminded him that family couldn't be trusted and there were several other scars and wounds that spoke of a similar story.

"Yes, well," Naomi flushed a little in evident anger. "Apparently the department and I have _different_ views on things, though they did agree that Dean needed to be removed from that environment and that man. So, I'm here to ask if you would take over your his care until he assumes legal age?"

Mary nodded almost instantly, her eyes glued to the papers Naomi had laid out for her. Honestly, Dean didn't get it. Had he not been bringing in monetary checks from the state each month with which John could use to feed his alcoholism, his dad would've thrown him out years ago, but his mother wasn't going to get those same payments because her situation was vastly different and Naomi had already explained that to her, so why would she even try to pretend she wanted him around?

"Of course," she replied. "He's my son."

He nearly scoffed vocally at that. He was not her son, not anymore at least. She'd made it perfectly clear over the last three years that she didn't want anything to do with him. He'd tried to find a way back into her life, tried to find a way for her to accept him, but in the end he'd never found a way to contact her. Worst of all, he could still distinctly recall the last time he'd ever tried to call her, the final moments before the gravity of it all had broken all reason in his mind.

It had been Christmas eve, one month until his fourteenth birthday. His house had been cold and he'd been rugged up in all the layers he owned simply trying to keep himself warm because the heater in his room was broken and his dad had forbade him from touching any of the others. John had passed out on the couch early that night after downing an entire bottle of some Russian spirit all on his own, so Dean hadn't worried about the man waking up and catching him using the phone in the hall, but he'd kept a vigilant watch on the living room anyway. Dean had memorised the number his mom had given him, he'd stared at those numbers so often and for so long that he wouldn't have been surprised if he'd started recanting them in his sleep. They'd never worked for him before, but it was _Christmas_ , surely they'd work for him today. The numbers had only ever reached an automated answering machine before and Dean's high hopes had always fallen into despair, each and every time. Nevertheless, on Christmas Eve, that first Christmas he spent apart from Sam and his mom, he'd sat in the hall and dialled the number, hopes higher than they'd ever been.

It had rung three times before his heart had dropped into his stomach and he was met with that familiar, automated voice: " _leave your name and number after the tone_ ". He'd taken a deep breath to steel himself and then left the other half of his family a message, as he always had back then.

"Hey Mom," he'd begun on a croak, hand rubbing the nape of his neck. "Merry Christmas or whatever… I hope you and Sam are doing okay, it seems like forever since we all got together." He paused for half a second, lowering his gaze before shooting it over to his unconscious father. "I haven't gotten any of your phone calls and you haven't picked up any of mine, but I'm sure we're just missing each other, or something like that," he'd chuckled nervously, no hint of amusement in his tone, only the sad sound of someone trying not to let their voice break with emotion.

"Anyway, I haven't seen you guys in ages," he repeated, unsure of what to say. "Maybe we could organise a catch up soon? I'd love to come over and check out your new house– Dad told me you moved a couple months back which is… cool. So I… uh… yeah, if you could call me when you get this…" his eyes started to swell with tears and gently he'd brushed them away, too tired to fight with his surfacing emotions. "It… it would really make my Christmas… I just… I really miss you both… Um… yeah. I love you guys and uh, yeah, bye."

He'd managed to hit the little red button on the hallway phone and place it back in its cradle before the breakwater barricades had burst and the full force of his mother's rejection hit him squarely in the chest. Dean had lost it. He'd broken down in the middle of the hallway, sinking to the floor as he pulled his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms securely around himself. He'd allowed the quiet sobs and tears to rack through him like they never had before, unceasing as he'd cried endlessly. He'd worked out the most horrible realisation on the eve of what many considered the most joyful time of the year, but for him Christmas would never again be happy. His mother didn't want him and there was no consolation offered to him that night. How had he not seen it before? Well, of course he had wondered, but he hadn't been able to bring himself to think such an awful thought. The thought that his mother didn't want him at all…

Naomi twisting in her chair and scraping her heels underneath the table jolted Dean back into the present.

"This is stupid…" he suddenly decided out loud, accidentally speaking in his mother's presence for the first time since he'd arrived as both pairs of eyes immediately shot over to him.

For half a moment he saw shock and hurt register on his mother's face and he couldn't help but feel a smug satisfaction that he'd hurt her, even if he hadn't intended to voice his thoughts aloud. It was impossible for her to ever understand how he'd felt, how he _still_ felt, but if he could give her even a whisper in the amount of pain that she'd given him then _good_ , she god-damn deserved it. She'd never even bothered to _call!_ It was all lit up like a neon sign for him now, unlike that Christmas he'd never forget.

"Dean," Naomi sighed, scraping her chair back and calmly progressing towards him, her shoes clacking very softly on the fake-wood linoleum floor. "Honey, I know this is hard. I get it, I do. The counsellor told me about what you said regarding your mother―" it was at this point that Dean noticed the highly intrigued and subtly concerned expression his mother was sporting, "―but I really think you need to give this a good shot, Dean. Try your hardest, you may even find you end up making some friends around here, and maybe you could even reconcile with her."

Returning to his silence, he merely nodded once, gluing his eyes to the holes in his trainers as he wiggled his sock-less toes. He could feel both women's concerned gazes still trained on him, cementing him to the ground, but he could hardly work up the effort required to care. What was another two years of neglect at this point anyway? Even if his mother didn't want him, she'd probably still shelter him until he was old enough to move out, and that was good enough for him, he supposed. He could finish school, get a part-time job, get his GED and hit the road, head around the country, find a cool place to settle himself down. All he wanted was to get as far away from his life as possible. Maybe he'd move to Canada or something…

Naomi gave him her trademark crooked smile and returned to her place at the table across from Mary, pulling out a few more papers from her brief case as Dean shuffled his feet awkwardly in the corner for a few minutes before exiting the room unnoticed, making his way back to the front porch where he'd collect himself and let his mind catch up to the new reality that his mother was actually going to take him in, shelter him like some unwanted pound puppy who had to go.

Plonking his sweaty self on the outside bench he'd noticed earlier and dumping his duffel beside him, Dean wiped his brow with one flannel covered arm. Even from here he could still hear the two women chattering, and occasionally he heard snippets of the conversation inside, though he mostly tuned out their monotonous kibitzing in favour of basking in the pleasant sounds of the quiet suburban neighbourhood. It was relaxing listening to mid-afternoon cicadas, the sprinklers spraying over manicured lawns and the sounds of young kids on their bikes riding up and down the empty street, so Dean closed his eyes, allowing himself to sink into the chair and melting as his tense muscles eased.

"Hey."

Dean's eyes snapped open and immediately pinning onto a boy around his age, advancing up the porch steps.

"Uh… hi?" He murmured in reply, pushing himself erect on the bench, all sense of ease gone as he analysed the guy approaching.

The teen, blue-eyed and dark-haired, marched up the stairs without a second thought or a moments hesitation, Dean finding this unashamed display slightly confronting. The boy sat down beside him on the old wooden bench, a soft smile on his face as Dean drew back in the smallest amount.

"You live here?" he asked, gesturing a thumb toward the house and getting comfortable on the seat.

"Seems like…" Dean replied ambiguously, bitterness in his voice, earning him a frown of confusion from the other teen before he chuckled and brushed it off.

"I'm Castiel," said the blue-eyed boy, thrusting a hand out for Dean to shake. "And you are…?"

"Dean." He gripped the proffered hand and gave it a sharp shake, like his dad had taught him to do. "Winchester."

"Oh," replied Castiel, his handshake suddenly slackening as though Dean's words had sent an electric current through his hands. "…Sam Winchester's brother, I assume?" he covered, though Dean could tell there was unbridled curiosity lurking behind those clear, sapphire eyes.

Dean simply nodded, sinking into silence at the awkward atmosphere he'd suddenly seemed to have created. Who was this guy? How did he know Sam? Why had Castiel reacted as though Dean was a live-wire when he declared his name? There were so many questions Dean suddenly wanted answers to, but none seemed appropriate to ask. Immediately, his mind began scrounging for less contentious conversation topics, but he came up short of anything useful so he blabbed out the first thing he could think of.

"You know Sammy?" He blurted, wincing at how inarticulate he sounded. He sounded like some country bumpkin, uneducated and unable to make conversation.

Castiel assented with a nod and a chuckle, Dean's inarticulate question apparently passing unnoticed.

"Yeah, this is a small town so everyone knows everyone. Also, Sam Winchester is basically everyone's friend, it'd be hard to find _someone_ in this place that doesn't know The Boy King, or at least know _of_ him."

"'The Boy King'?" Dean repeated, a question attached.

"Oh," Castiel laughed, a pure, genuine sound that echoed like angel song. "That's the nickname the team gave him last year when he scored them the finals of the junior game. I'm not big on sports, but your brother's basically the winning man around here, or so I'm told. It wouldn't surprise me if the high school gives him some kind of scholarship for sports and academia next year, I hear he's pretty bright for his age. Built like a moose too."

Dean looked down, fiddling with his fingers, unable to help the small smile spreading across his features from the praise this stranger was lavishing on his little brother, his guard slowly dropping.

"Yeah, Sammy was a bright kid. I always knew he'd do fine." Dean chuckled, briefly recalling the face of his brother at age ten, the last time he'd actually seen him. Sam would be close to thirteen now, if not thirteen already, and from what Castiel was saying Sam was doing great, much better than Dean had ever done in school. Not that he'd been a regular attender. He could swear he'd spent more time shoplifting at the local mall than in his classes, and Nick, the one friend he could actually claim to be his friend, was a drop-out just like him.

Castiel smiled and Dean caught it in the corner of his eye, making him look up.

"What?" He questioned throwing up his guard again, slightly defensive with it being caught down. "How do you know so much about my brother anyway? You friends with him or something?"

Castiel shook his head.

"No, I'm not well acquainted with your brother, but in regards to your first question, I make it my business to know about the people round here." He heaved himself off the bench, still smiling as he did so.

"That's why you're talking to me?" Dean tossed, giving a snort as he avoided those searching eyes that seemed far too pitying for a person whom he'd just met. Those eyes were usually reserved by the social workers and carers who knew just what he'd been through.

"No," Castiel leaned against the railing, his eyes lifting to the golden haze that was the afternoon sky. "You just looked like you wanted the company."

He didn't know what to say to that, so he stilled his tongue and folded his arms. This Castiel was a strange boy and Dean wasn't sure if he liked him or not. In a way, he already knew he did. He was friendly and approachable and he'd come up to Dean without hesitation, the black eye he sported not deterring him in the slightest. Except, the way Castiel almost seemed to _read_ him threw Dean for a loop. He didn't want people reaching into his past, he just wanted to put it behind him, forget the last three years and move on.

"You wanna come get ice-cream with me at the parlour? It's pretty hot out today and you sure look like you could use one, especially since you insist on wearing so many layers." The darker-haired joked lightly, his voice light and playful as he teased about the colourful array of Dean's plaid flannel shirts.

Dean smirked boyishly in reply before he swallowed, the smile faltering and falling from his face.

"Thanks, but I think I'd better stay here," he glanced at the screen door before dropping his gaze to the decking. "I don't want them to think I've run off or something."

"Suit yourself." The other shrugged, after pulling away from the railing in a slightly effeminate way and jogging down the steps, giving him a final wave from the bottom. "I'll see you around, Dean Winchester." He saluted with a playful wink, catching Dean off guard again before spinning on his heel and shoving his hands into the pockets of his shorts, making his way down the empty street with an air of carelessness about him.

Yep. He was a weird kid, or so Dean decided as he stood and approached the same railing that Castiel had been leaning against only moments ago. He _wished_ he could be so carefree, but life clearly hadn't treated him as well as it had Castiel. Not that he was bitter about that or anything. Wishing for what other people had was petty jealousy and he'd never stoop that low.

The screen door of the house unexpectedly creaked open as Dean's face was washed in a cool summer breeze. He didn't turn at the sound of the woman's voice calling his name, instead, he continued to stare resolutely ahead in silence, not really wanting to know what had transpired inside the house while he'd been ignoring reality, though the reluctantly heard news was delivered sooner than he would've liked.

"Dean?" Naomi approached him tentatively, coming to stand next to him and look out on the perfect, green lawn. "Your mother has signed the papers, you're under her duty of care now."

His social worker lapsed into silence beside him, waiting for some response which Dean never gave. The breeze tickled his hair and he rubbed a lock between his thumb and forefinger, deciding he would need to cut it tomorrow― having it too long was an inconvenience and short hair suited him better anyway.

"There's going to be a psychologist coming here every Friday," she continued, turning her head to try and read his expression, her own features showing only concern as his apparent lack of disinterest in her words had little affect. "They'll help you, Dean. If you're willing."

Dean faced her, swallowing loudly, still trying to cover his emotions with a mask of indifference as he nodded. Naomi gave him her crooked smile, looking as though she wanted to hug him.

"Every thing's going to be alright," she encouraged. "And if you ever need me, I'm just a phone call away, okay?"

He blinked at her before stiffly acknowledging.

"Well then," she pushed away from the railing and rested her arm on his shoulder, Dean surprisingly unflinching. "Goodbye Dean. For your sake, I hope our next encounter is a happier one."

He didn't want to admit it, but begrudgingly he did. Naomi had done a lot for him. That he couldn't deny. She may have simply done it because it was her job and she may have acted like this around all her clients, but hers was the first kindness he'd been shown in a long time, and he couldn't let that go unacknowledged.

"Ms. Naomi?" He croaked, pausing her halfway down the porch steps as she looked to him, her brow raised slightly. "Thank you."

She beamed, her eyes crinkling in the corners as she nodded once, understanding how hard it was for Dean to acknowledge what she'd done for him out loud.

"You're welcome, Dean." She replied, switching the hand that held her briefcase. "I hope you do well kiddo."

With that final statement of good luck, Dean's social worker was gone. His eyes followed her as she marched down the porch steps in her clacky heels, all the way down the path and out to her silver car. She gave him a final wave which he did not return and proceeded to pull away from the curb, her car disappearing around the corner only minutes later as his stomach growled audibly, demanding sustenance.

Deciding to return indoors, Dean immediately headed towards the dinning room, expecting to find his mother but pleasantly surprised to find she was not in the vicinity as he reached the gaudy wooden kitchen, the cupboard counters adorned with distasteful, ugly trinkets. Briefly glancing around, he spotted the fridge, an enormous silver monstrosity that snuggled in between one ugly wooden counter and the oven. After crossing over, he pulled it open by the huge handle to find it stuffed to the brim with all sorts of strange and wonderful items, some of which he recognised and some of which he didn't. He pulled out a few items, expecting to find one of the wrapped packages to say bacon, but he couldn't locate bacon, or even any eggs.

"Pastrami?" He muttered disdainfully under his breath as he shoved the food back into the fridge, deciding to try his luck with canned foods. He didn't even know what "pastrami" was, so he opted for a safe bet and after a bit of searching through the well-stocked pantry, found himself a can of baked beans. Yeah, this would do. It was even the same sort that he'd stocked away at his dad's, so he knew it wouldn't have some funky-weird flavouring. Pouring the contents into a saucepan, he stuck the beans over the hot stove, giving them a quick stir before jamming the lid over the pan and reclining against the bench with a sigh. His stomach still hadn't given up its rumbling, but Dean was used to ignoring those aches and pains.

"Dean?"

Looking up, he saw his mother striding into the kitchen, a bundle of fresh picked thyme in her hand which she set down on the bench at the sight of him, the smell of Dean's cooking wafting through the room. "What're you doing, sweetie?"

Her voice irritated him. How dare she stand there and use that sickly-sweet, motherly voice on him and call him _sweetie!_

"Making dinner." He mumbled, turning away and lifting the lid of the saucepan to check the progress of his meal as he was briefly assaulted by a memory of his dad asking the same question. Forcefully, he kept himself focused on present, knowing exactly where that memory would lead him.

"Dinner?" She repeated, her brow raising. "Honey, I'm making a stir fry for dinner."

Dean frowned, keeping his back to her. It had kind of just been automatic… He'd completely forgotten how meal times had used to go when his mother was around. She'd cook the meal for the four of them and then they'd all sit at the table, say their prayer and dig in, but he'd forgotten about that. At his father's they'd never eaten together, or sometimes at all; there was hardly any food in their house at the best of times. Dean had been cooking for himself _by_ himself for the last three years.

"Well, that's one less mouth for you to feed, I guess." He retorted, biting back the harsher words that wanted to escape his lips.

He kind of wished Naomi hadn't left. If things had been uncomfortable before, they were ten times worse now and Dean wished more than anything that his mom would just leave him be. Looking at her perfect face surrounded by her bouncy blonde curls only enraged him. He wanted to yell and scream at her, get angry, hurt her in the same way she hurt him, but he couldn't, otherwise he was no better than his father and if there was one thing he knew, it was that he _never_ wanted to be a carbon copy of his dad.

"Dean, pumpkin, I know you're quite capable of taking care of yourself, but I would like it if you ate with us."

He held onto his silence, refusing to justify a reply. That's right, he was perfectly capable of taking care of himself. After all, when was the next time the rug would be yanked out from under him?

"Sweetie?"

"STOP WITH THE PET NAMES ALREADY!" He exploded, whirling around to face his wide-eyed and shocked mother, eyes stinging with the threat of tears. "I'm not your 'Sweetie' or your 'Pumpkin' or 'Honey', I'm just _Dean_ , and that's all you're allowed to call me because you're _not_ my mother and I'm sure as hell you don't see me as your son. I'm sorry you have to put me up, I know it must be a _huge_ inconvenience for you, but just stop trying so hard to pretend you care, it's shallow and stupid!"

Suddenly, he flinched back, realising what had just unconsciously tumbled from his mouth in his fit of anger.

 _Shit._

He hadn't meant to do that. He really couldn't escape it. He wasgoing to become his dad whether he liked it or not. That was why his mother had pushed him away. She could see the same darkness in him that had always lurked inside John, she'd seen it three years ago and kicked him to the curb when she'd seen it then. It was no wonder no one loved him. Immediately, he felt ashamed. He'd cracked… he hadn't been going to say anything to her, but accidentally, the other shoe had dropped.

"Sorry…" He choked apologetically, bringing a hand up to his face. "I'm sorry… I didn't mean to shout at you…"

She simply continued to stare at him, her balled fist clutched to her breast and her posture defensive. Neither of them did anything for a moment, but eventually, his mother's expression softened and she stepped forward tentatively, relaxing as she moved.

"Dean," she smiled, getting ever closer and eventually resting a gentle hand on his cheek. He didn't even try to pull away. The contact was so soft and nostalgic that Dean struggled to hold the tears back and they quickly started plopping off his face. "We _never_ forgot about you, and I never stopped loving you. I know this is going to be hard for you and I don't expect you to adjust overnight or forget your dad either, but Dean, there was never a time when I wasn't proud to be your mother. I never stopping thinking of you. I _love_ you. I've always loved you, Dean."

He wanted to believe those words. Honest to god he knew he did, but the knowledge that it was all a lie just to comfort him stood fast and firm. He hated himself for still wanting to seek that comfort, even knowing it was fake. Why couldn't he let her go? Why couldn't he deny himself that lie, move on with his life? He despised it. He still selfishly sought her love even though, in his heart of hearts, he knew she could never truly give it.

She brushed a stray lock of hair away from his face and he dipped his head, hiding his eyes from hers.

"Would you like some toast with your baked beans then?" She asked, a faint hint of a smile in her voice.

"S-sure." He answered shakily as she drew back. With her hand removed, Dean suddenly felt cold and alone again, but he shoved that feeling into the back of his mind and boarded up the instantaneous abandonment he felt. This was the way things had to be. He couldn't allow himself to fall for her fictional fabrication that lured with false promises of care and tenderness. He knew she wouldn't hurt him physically, not like John had, but in some ways he feared that living with his mother would be even worse. He was scared he might accidentally fall for her deception and things would hurt even more painfully when torn away from him. He was so scared he'd end up _believing_ her, even though he knew he couldn't trust anybody but himself.

Mary disappeared into the enormous pantry and reappeared with a loaf of bread in hand, Dean watching as she took out two slices and dropped them into the toaster one at a time before pushing down the lever and returning the bread to its place. After closing the wooden pantry door behind her, Mary too reclined against the bench, facing Dean as she waited for the toast to pop.

"Sam will be home soon," she observed, glancing at the clock on the oven. "He'll be so happy to see you. He's missed you a whole lot."

Dean had missed him too. Though the prospect of actually seeing Sam again frightened him. What would he think? What would he say?What _was_ there to say? Honestly, thinking about it didn't help, it only worried him more. All he could do was draw up blanks, empty conversation starters with no real substance or meaning, because how did he even begin to fill in three years worth of nothing? It wasn't Sam's fault, he knew that. His little brother had had about as much say as he had when their parents split, but a tiny, tiny dark part of him wanted to put a stroke against Sam's name, shift a microscopic amount of blame onto Sam for neglecting him like his mother had. Obviously, the weight of inculpation was incomparable to the extensive portion of culpability that Dean himself felt, and even admitting to himself that he _wanted_ to blame Sam, even in the smallest amounts, made him feel selfish, dirty and disgusting. Sam wasn't really at fault and he didn't deserve the responsibility Dean wanted to throw at him. Really, it was all just him. He'd been too afraid to do anything about his situation. He was too cowardly and stupid to stay out of plain sight for too long and his dad had always been waiting for him when he returned. He wasn't smart or intelligent, brave or strong, not like Naomi had claimed he was, not like the psychologist had commended him for being. He was useless, and in reality he knew he could blame no one but himself.

"Dean, honey, are you alright?"

His mother's voice sent a spike of shock through him, jolting him out of his desolate thoughts as he nodded and turned his attention back to the food on the stove top.

Taking the beans off the heat, Dean gave them a good stir and checked they were cooked, avoiding his mother's studious gaze as he poured them from the pot into a plastic bowl she handed him.

"What's wrong?" Mary pressed, hardly distracted by his futile attempts to ignore her staring. "Are you worried about Sam?"

He flinched, cringing internally as she hit the nail right on the head. This was all new for him, he'd never had to hide his feelings from his dad, his dad hadn't really cared. His mom though, she was watching him. She was going to play this game, slip casually back into the role she'd previously played in the poor, pitiable play that was his life.

"Oh honey, you don't have to worry," She reassured with a soft smile. Apparently she'd taken his neither denying nor confirming as affirmation of her words. "Sam's going to adorehaving you back."

"A-are you sure?" He found himself asking, hating himself for doing so and sounding so obviously pleading about it. He shouldn't be asking such questions, all they did was raise his already far too high hopes and simultaneously remind him of how weak he was. He shouldn't need this fake reassurance, he should _know_ her words were just lies! Why in the hell did he continue to seek comfort from the person he hated most, the person who'd betrayed him most grievously? His lack of willpower against her words astounded even him. It was something he'd have to work on, of that he was sure.

"Dean, pumpkin…" He found himself being pulled into a warm hug, a hand smoothing down the back of his hair. The pet names were still kind of annoying, but he relaxed into her embrace anyway, because he found that the more he pushed against himself, the quicker he didn't want her to let go. "Of course he will, he's your brother. He loves you, sweetie, just like I do."

More than anything, he wanted to cry right then and there. He wanted sob into her shirt, let her hold him as he broke down in her arms, because it had been him against the world for so long that he'd forgotten what it was like to have someone wrap their arms around him and make promises that sounded real and hopeful. Except he couldn't do that. He couldn't just stride across a gap that had taken three years to form. A void had settled in between that crevasse and Dean didn't know what he might find if he decided to take that leap of faith, take that hand, outstretched over the blackness between them. What if he took that hand and she let go? What if she rejected him again like she had before? He would tumble into that horrible, murky darkness and he might never find his way out again. That link of trust was simply too thin and too brittle for him to even seriously contemplate putting his faith in her a second time.

The sudden sound of the front door opening and closing made Dean draw sharply away from his mom, curling his arms into his chest as his heartbeat increased wildly. No, it was too soon. He wasn't ready yet, he couldn't face anyone, he was barely comfortable facing his mother. He registered loud footfalls, their nearness encroaching further towards the kitchen as Dean's heart redoubled it's efforts to pump copious amounts of adrenaline through his system, flooding him with a tsunami of anxiety. Expecting the little brother whom he hadn't seen in years, he pushed himself against the cupboard and froze, eyes locked in the direction of the entranceway as his peripheral spied his mother, hesitating in how to react. Her arms were still half outstretched, as though she were ready to reach for him at any given moment, but Dean wasn't going to accept that comfort. If he couldn't stand on his own two feet when facing Sam, he certainly wouldn't be able to stand on his own when he left this home made of cardboard walls and broken promises.

However, it wasn't Sam they were both greeted with, instead it was a tall, broad shouldered man that Dean had never seen before, the scent of the strong and unfamiliar cologne filling his nostrils and immediately setting him on edge.

"Michael!" Mary exclaimed, happiness and a hint of surprise in her voice as she strolled out of the kitchen and dutifully pecked the man's lips, a swift and sudden motion that left Dean bewildered and confused.

Dean had flinched at her high pitched shrill when she'd warbled out this man's name, and he'd locked his jaw, trying to prevent it from nervously chattering.

"Mary?" Muttered the man, Michael, his own surprise tainting his tone as his eyes immediately fell on Dean and then the bruise that occupied half his face. "Who's this?"

Dean gulped harshly, the dryness in his throat making it hard to swallow as he looked down at the floor like he'd habitually learned to do. He could feel both pairs of eyes on him and he wanted nothing more than to curl up into a tiny ball and hide himself away in one of the cupboards. He felt terribly self-conscious and his knees were starting to feel like jelly.

"Michael, this is Dean." She introduced, the undertone in her words heavy with unspoken allusions to previously had conversations as she returned to Dean's side in a show of comfort and solidarity which Michael immediately seemed to understand.

"Dean?" He sounded surprised. Well, of course he would be. Who could possibly predict a broken child from their wife's first marriage randomly showing up on their doorstep, it wasn't exactly something that belonged under the heading of 'everyday norm'.

Even from his peripheral vision, Dean didn't miss the look the two adults exchanged, but it was hardly any of his business. He didn't want to get friendly with Michael. It was enough that his mother was already trying to tear down his barriers and poke her motherly tenderness where he no longer wanted it, there was no way he was going to accept this strange man in his life too.

"Well," Michael gave him a smile and thrust out a masculine hand. It wasn't like he couldn't see what he was doing, but Dean wasn't about to get chummy or play make-believe happy family's, so he ignored the gesture altogether. "It's nice to meet you, Dean."

He didn't utter a single sound. All he did was pull his arms tighter to his chest and stare harder at the ground, the awkward silence starting to linger. He could see things very clearly from where Michael stood in the whole debacle of a situation. If he pretended to get along with Dean, then perhaps things would settle down fine, the only issue here was going to be Dean himself. Not that Michael had to worry, Dean would play the part he'd been assigned, in due time… or perhaps he might not even need to worry about it, Dean might decide to up and leave this place in a week. Who would give a shit then?

"Maybe, while we're waiting for Sam, we can all sit down in the living room so Dean can eat his tea?" Mary suggested, her tone underlining her discomfort at the tension between the two males. Michael coughed in embarrassment while Dean nodded, crossing the kitchen to retrieve his cold toast and returning to pick up his lukewarm bowl of baked beans.

The three of them departed from the kitchen, but they didn't make very far, only to the dinning room before the very distinctive sound of the front door was heard again.

Dean's heart suddenly gave a rather large and painful _thump_ before it skipped a beat and jumped into his throat, leaving him winded and out of breath for a second time. He glanced at the entranceway, instantly spotting the profile of a young teen as his world seemed to stutter and stall, time grinding to a halt as hazel eyes met green.

The older froze, unconsciously waiting for the shock to clear from Sam's face, but it didn't and he was left standing awkwardly in the middle of the room before the youngers' agape mouth formed a single word.

"D-Dean…?" He stammered out, the sound no more than a whisper, holding disbelief and incredulity as his bag dropped unnoticed from his hand onto the floor.

Dean inhaled sharply, not registering his own bowl of baked beans slipping through his fingers until it was too late.

* * *

For a moment, there was only silence. Dean didn't hear the bowl clattering to the floor and by the looks of things, neither did Sam. All Sam did was stare, eyes wide, but the longer Sam did so, his hazel eyes burning a hole in the other, the harder Dean found it to breathe. His feet felt heavy like lead, holding him fast to the spot and his chest felt like it was about implode, he just couldn't seem to drag in enough air and each ragged breath seemed more exhaustive than its predecessor. It was only when Sam took a single step forward that Dean's feet rapidly seemed to unstick themselves from the floor and he stumbled back, his spine making painful contact with the bench behind him when he crashed into it.

This was it, the whole happy family was together now…

If he had known how horrible facing this was going to be, he would have begged harder to stay in the boys home. Dealing with the cut-throat system was way easier than facing the problems of his past or even coming face to face with a brother whom he feared would push him away, just like everyone else in his family had. He loved Sam, dearly. More than anyone he'd ever loved, but his fear of being rejected held strong, gripped him by his heartstrings and threatened to yank them out and leave him bleeding all over the floor. He wasn't sure he'd be able to take it from Sammy, he wasn't sure he'd survive such a blow. Not from _Sam._ Seeing him in the flesh like this only made things more real, only made him more apprehensive.

" _Dean_ …" He heard again, feeling somewhat disassociated from everything around him as Sam crossed the room in only a few strides, his lanky legs crossing through the dinning room at swifter speeds than he'd ever seen anyone move before. The only thought that crossed through Dean's mind as the younger yanked him into a rib-cracking embrace was, oddly, just how tall his little brother had become since he'd seen him last, but time―and everything else―caught up to him eventually.

It was unexpected, hearing the gut-wrenching sounds of ugly, broken sobs over his shoulder. It pulled him from his reverie and he suddenly felt Sam's hands grabbing tightly at his shirt, adjusting every now and then, though only to fist the material tighter. In a way, it felt like Sam was clinging to him for dear life, and it confused and startled Dean when he made no attempt to pull away and instead, his own arms flew up around Sam's back in a knee-jerk reaction.

"Y-you're here _…_ " Sam whispered tearfully in his ear, each word driving like a stake through his chest and each sob like a hammer hitting a nail.

There were so many things unsaid between them, so much time to make up for and explanations Dean had to give, but none of that felt important in this moment. Seeing Sam for real like this was like rain diluting stagnant pools of water; he suddenly didn't feel the need to place the blame, all he could feel was his own guilt at ever thinking Sam had had a part to play in the last three years of his hellish life and it went from a drip to a trickle to a stream, as though his guilt were venom, travelling to his heart through a well-aimed funnel. Sam was not to blame, not for any of it. He could see that clearly now.

"Did you ever doubt it?" Dean murmured with a soft chuckle, covering his own self-hatred and guilt with a warm voice as he ran his fingers through Sam's shaggy, hickory-brunette hair.

A minute passed before the younger slowly pulled back, wiping at his dripping nose and wet eyes with a hint of embarrassment. Coughing out a little laugh, he rubbed at the tears that refused to cease, leaving the question unanswered as his eyes fixed on the massive bruise surrounding Dean's eye.

"What happened to your face, Dean?" He asked innocently, concern knitting his brows together as he frowned at the green, black and yellow bruise healing around his eye socket.

It was an obvious injury and while he'd hoped Sam would ignore it, it was apparent he'd get no such luck. Instead he gave a little laugh, brushing of Sam's question with a careless lie about how he'd tripped and fallen a while back, but he didn't miss the look of worry his mother shot his way. She knew the truth and Dean couldn't hide that from her, but Sam didn't need to hear the horrible story. He didn't want to be the one responsible for spoiling Sam's innocence. After all, Sam didn't know what his father had become, what he'd turned out to be. It was better he kept the happy memories from life before the divorce, better Dean kept the hard reality at bay. He couldn't bear to be the one to snatch Sam's happy memories away and replace them with the ugliness and darkness that had consumed his past three years. He didn't want to talk about it anyway. A lot of it was too hard to talk about, it pulled out memories he'd tried to force back, swallow down. He didn't want those coming out now, not after all the hard work he'd put in to make sure they stayed sealed in the shadowy corners of his mind.

"Hey boys," Mary interrupted, keenly sensing her eldest son's discomfort as Michael bent down to clean up the spilled food, Dean feeling a spike of thanks toward the guy. "Why don't we have pizza tonight instead of stir-fry? Dean's first meal home should be something a bit more exciting, right?"

Sam beamed, eyes flicking from mother to brother as he nodded gleefully, Dean briefly wondering if one could go blind from looking at something so bright. He was nearly thirteen now, but he still had that perfectly guiltless look of innocence, and Dean was painfully reminded of how that had been him once too.

"Sam, go take your bag upstairs while I find the pizza menu, okay?" She continued as Michael disappeared into the kitchen.

"Sure, Mom." Sam nodded, swinging by the doorway to collect his bag as he practically bounced upstairs.

"You don't mind pizza, do you?" His mom smiled as she asked her almost rhetorical question, turning her attention back to him as he pressed his lips together tightly and shook his head.

"That's good." She continued. "What kind of pizza would you like? Meat-lovers or…?"

"Uh…" Dean cleared his throat, uncomfortable with the happy smile settling upon his mother's face. He didn't like the way she looked at him. It was too kindly, too loving. No one cared that much about another person, of that, Dean was positive. He wished she'd stop pretending, it was getting old real fast.

"Sure. Sounds fine, thanks." He twitched the corner of his lip, hoping it would come off as enough of a smile and not a forced expression. She could remember his favourite kind of pizza, but she couldn't remember to call him? What a joke… Everything felt so un-addressed. Like, how was he supposed to slot in here? Were they just going to sweep the hard questions under the rug and pretend like nothing had happened?

She beamed at him, the expression almost as bright as the one his little brother had given him only moments ago. He wondered if he had ever smiled that brightly; he wasn't sure his muscles had ever stretched that far.

"Well, honey, why don't you go sit down in the living room? I'll take your bag upstairs and you go get settled in while we wait for pizza, maybe flick through the channels and see if you can find something for us to watch."

His mother grabbed the duffel he'd dumped on the floor and left, heading upstairs and following the same path Sam took as Dean wandered through the other archway in the dinning room, coming out in a cosy living area where the whole room looked as though it'd stepped out of some nineteen-ninety's sitcom.

He plonked himself on the carpeted floor and gazed off out the window, noticing the diminishing light from outside as he ignored the remote on the coffee table in front of him. He was reluctant to touch the TV at all, not because he thought his mom would come in and start yelling at him for turning it on, he knew she wouldn't because she'd been the one to tell him to turn it on in the first place, but because that's what his _dad_ had done whenever he'd reached for the TV remote. It was somewhat ingrained, he supposed.

Curling into a ball, Dean rested his back against the couch and pulled his knees in close to his chest, pressing his head down on top and allowing his hair to flop over.

He wanted to cry. He wouldn't though, not when his face wasn't pressed into a pillow and he wasn't guaranteed to be left alone for a good twenty minutes afterwards so the puffy swelling around his eyes could die away, but he _wanted_ to. Everything here was so… happy. There was no yelling, no screaming, no hitting or punching or kicking. There was no trace of alcohol drifting through the air or the musty, dusty smell of a house that had never been cleaned. It was cool, because there was air-conditioning, there were no noisy neighbours and Dean knew there was food in the cupboard, which he could go to whenever he was hungry. It was almost ridiculously peaceful and he wasn't was scared, but it wasn't the same thing. He was scared his mom would kick him out, that she would tire of him quickly, scared Sam would reject him if he snapped like he had before. There were no hands of help, no words of comfort that had reached him in years and now that he was in a place where love freely floated around as though it were oxygen, he discovered that he couldn't breathe. For so long he'd wanted a comforting touch or a kind word, but now he could get just that, he was afraid to accept. Not that he didn't have a good reason not to. It was hard to trust someone who'd rejected you before. Almost impossible, in fact, but they all wanted him to try. Naomi, his mother, Sam… they all seemed to want what was best for him, but he was so confused by the hundreds of conflicting emotions that tumbled about in his head. His heart told him to trust, but his brain told him not to. His brain told him he didn't _deserve_ this.

"―so I thought we could watch a movie tonight while we eat dinner. Have you seen _Attack_ _of the Killer_ _Tomatoes_ _?"_

Dean lifted his head as Sam waltzed into the room, already changed from his old clothes to comfortable track pants and a tank-top, a DVD in his hand. Spying Dean curled into himself, the younger immediately jolted and scooted onto the carpet, sitting down next to his brother and leaning his back against the couch as he pressed a cool hand to Dean's forehead.

"Hey, hey, you alright?" He squawked, feeling Dean's face all over, looking for signs of a fever or other illness. "You don't look well. Are you sick, Dean?"

Grabbing Sam's gangly arms at the wrists, he pulled them off his face and threw his little brother a passing smile, small as it was.

"I'm _fine,_ Sammy." He chuckled, letting go. "I guess I'm just a bit hungry… I haven't eaten for a while."

"Oh. Okay." Sam pulled back, perking up as Dean further reassured by giving a little nod. "I guess you've had a long day as well, huh… the trip from dad's must be pretty far…"

For a brief moment, he'd forgotten that Sammy knew nothing about the boys home or the social workers. Sam could almost be called unimpeachable, but it also meant that Sam would believe anything he said, which was unlikely to be a good thing in the long run. His little brother was too trusting.

Dean paused for a moment, inadvertently hesitating in his lie. "Yeah, it's been a big day…"

"When are you going back?" Sam continued, his expression downcast as he thought on his words. "It's not soon, is it?" He glanced up, pressing Dean with look of worry.

It was little cute Sam worried so earnestly about him.

"It's not soon, no. I'll be staying here for a while." He managed, knocking Sam's shoulder with his own in a brotherly display of tenderness, wondering how he could change the topic of conversation without being obvious about it. "Guess that means you'll have an annoying big brother crashing all your house parties when Mom's not here."

"I'm not that cool, Dean." He laughed in response. "Even if I had a house party, I'm not sure too many people would actually show up."

"Well," Dean cocked an eyebrow and pasted on a mock look of disbelief. "That's not what I heard from this Castiel kid today. He said you even had a nickname, 'Boy Wonder' or 'The Wonder King' or something like that. You sounded pretty cool to me."

Sam blushed with embarrassment, ducking his head as Dean nudged him again.

"I can't believe that stupid nickname is still going round…" He muttered, barely loud enough for Dean to hear.

"Also," the older added interjectionally, smiling at the adorably embarrassed blush heating Sam's cheeks when teased. "He said you were _everyone's_ friend, so what you said _can't_ be true!" He emphasised, noting with hilarity that Sam had flushed all the way up to his ears.

"Okay, now that's a lie!" Sam retaliated indignantly, defending himself from what were now blatant attempts at boosting his self-esteem.

"Only in your mind, bucko!" Dean guffawed, ruffling his little brother's hair as he mussed it with the palm of his hand. "I'm betting you're actually everyone's favourite, right? I bet your girlfriend is jealously batting away all those other gals that keep throwing themselves on you."

"I don't even _have_ a girlfriend, Dean!"

"Bet you have a crush though."

Quickly, Sam lapsed into silence, knowing if he said anything he'd only incriminate himself further, but the sudden heat that ran up to the back of his neck as he turned away gave Dean all the evidence he needed.

"HA! I'm right aren't I? What's her name?"

Sam looked back at his brother, horrified Dean could read him so easily.

"Jess…" he finally mumbled, crossing his arms over his chest. "Her name's Jess."

Dean laughed, deciding to tone down his teasing a little.

"I bet if you asked her out, she'd say yes."

Sam pulled a wry smile, turning back to Dean who wore a gleeful smirk of his own.

"You're just saying crap now."

"No, no! She'd be lucky to have you little brother! If she said no, I reckon she'd regret it later."

Sam smacked his lips, eyes narrowing at Dean, trying to tell if he was still teasing or not before he picked up the DVD off the carpet.

"So… _Attack_ _of the Killer Tomato_ _e_ _s_ _…_ Have you seen it?" Sam asked, changing the topic away from his own love life.

"No," Dean answered. "Is it good?"

Sam suddenly launched into total fan-boy mode, rattling off what could have been a five-thousand word essay about the film as Dean sat there in silence, smiling at the enthusiasm that was rolling off the younger in waves. He was sure he'd find out that the movie wasn't as good as Sam made it out to be later―it sounded like a cult film, and he was more of a blockbuster kind of guy―but Dean enjoyed listening to the enthusiastic retelling of it anyway. Actually, he found the movie to be a blessing in disguise when their pizza came, because it gave him a convienent excuse not to speak with his mother about uncomfortable topics neither of them could fix or currently wanted to address.

He managed to sit through the whole thing, Sam narrating every line and everything, before his mother switched off the television as she announced it to be bed time for both her boys, Sam protesting her words with a groan and whimsy excuses.

"But I haven't seen Dean in _ages!_ Can't we stay up a bit longer?" He whined, Dean quietly amused by the puppy-dog-eye expression his mother so obviously wanted to melt at.

"No, Sam." She shook her head, deliberately tearing her eyes away from him. "Dean's had a long day today and so have you. You two can catch up tomorrow."

"Fine…" Sam rolled his eyes with a huff, but conceded to her words after watching Dean's droopy eyes cast to the blackness beyond the window pane, the older noticing for the first time how dark it had gotten as he stood.

His noisy joints creaked as he lifted himself off the carpet and dusted his greasy pizza-fingers off onto one of his many shirts, suddenly feeling a small, forgotten item in an inner shirt pocket. He knew what it was, even without pulling it out. It was his lighter. A gift from Nick on his fifteenth birthday, though Dean knew it had been stolen, mostly because neither of them had any money of their own and it was the gross yellow kind that one could find for two bucks out the front of a convenience store.

"Hey, uhh…" he glanced at Sam and then at his mom, before dropping his gaze to the ugly, patchy carpet. "I'm just going to step outside for a bit, get some fresh air and all that, you know." Sam nodded unsuspectingly, though his mother watched him with a furrowed look of concern as he left the room and made his way out onto the porch.

Dean found that the heat of the summer day still hadn't dissipated despite the velvet darkness that engulfed every side of the veranda, but that didn't bother him. The little silver stars that dotted the clear night sky were relaxing to look out at as he pulled a single cigarette from his jeans pocket and a cheap lighter from his shirt. He lit the end of his stick and took a quick drag as he restored the daffodil-coloured lighter to his pants. This was the last cig from that carton. Nick had given it to him before he'd left, but it was weird to know he'd never see that guy again. He had a new life now.

Inhaling again, Dean closed his eyes. Nick had truly been a friend, he could say that retrospectively, but Nick had been dealing with issues of his own so a lot of the time he'd been a hard guy to deal with. Perhaps that was why they'd gotten on so well. The two of them had shared their stories to each other and they'd bandaged each other up on the odd occasion, Nick literally bandaging and Dean emotionally acting as a plaster. He'd told Nick so many times that he thought his dad was going to kill him, maybe Nick finally believed he had been. Dean had been gone for over two weeks now, longer than he'd ever disappeared without explanation, and he kind of felt guilty that Nick didn't know. He would send word if he knew where Nick lived, or even phone him if he knew his number, but neither of them had enquired about these things. They'd never thought they would need to. They'd always assumed they be driving down the highway to hell together, but somehow, he'd been raised from perdition all by his lonesome and Nick was still stuck in hell. Though, for all Dean knew, he might have been thrown from the frying pan and into the fire, pulled from hell only to be pushed into purgatory.

"I thought I might find you out here."

Dean jumped, the cigarette dropping from between his fingers and onto the porch where he immediately stamped it out with the heel of his foot, knowing already that he'd been caught. Two weeks and he'd already lost the ability to hear someone approaching, good god, he was letting himself down. The him from a year ago would be ashamed. His reflexes had been lightning quick back then, now they were piss poor!

"Michael!" He jerked back in shock, the name escaping his lips without any of its usual venom. He'd been lacing every word with poison when he'd spoken to Michael or his mother, and he scowled at the rookie mistake. If he started speaking kindly, they might try and put an effort in, and that wasn't what he wanted. They could stay in their world, he'd stay in his, everything would work out great and then he'd graduate and they'd never need to see his ugly mug again.

"Don't worry," the older winked reassuringly, "I won't tell your mom about your smokes."

"I-I'm not worried about that." He spat defensively, shooting his gaze away from his mom's new husband as the aforementioned rested his folded forearms on the porch railing and stared out at the same manicured lawn that Dean and Castiel had earlier that day.

Michael gave a single huff of unconvinced amusement and looked up at the stars too, a silence settling between them and surprising Dean when he found it a rather comfortable one.

"I know this is hard for you, kid." The older said, breaking the quiet once more.

Dean simply rolled his eyes and shook his head, taking a seat on the bench behind him.

"You know, you're not the first person to tell me that today." He replied expressionlessly, crossing his left leg over his right.

"I know," Michael nodded understandingly. "But I mean it, Dean. I may not know what life was like at your dad's, but from that healing bruise on your face, I can only assume it wasn't a party."

"Yeah, well what would any of _you_ know." He sagged, memories of the past swimming to the front of his mind. "It was a freakin' huge party every day, I mean, there was alcohol and whack the pinata was a daily game for my dad, of course, _heh_ , I was the fucking pinata."

Michael sighed as he turned around to give Dean a sympathetic gaze. Not that Dean wanted this guy's sympathies. Honestly, having people stare at him like he was either a kicked dog or an explosive waiting to go off was getting tiring and he knew it would only get worse from here. He'd have to go to school eventually; what would the kids say when he showed up looking like he'd been in a prize fight with a bull? This was a small town as it was. People were going to talk, no matter what he did. He'd just have to keep his head down, try not to start any fights or make any friends. It was going to be a long and lonely haul, but he was confident he could make it through two and a half years of school without ticking any of those boxes.

"You don't like me." Michael half sighed, running a hand through his brown locks as he pulled a wry smile at the ground.

"Can you blame me?" Dean snorted. Geez, he'd just met the man, of course he wasn't going to take to him right away. Not that Dean would _ever_ like the man, but still, the point remained.

"It's not just me though, is it?" Michael continued, as though he hadn't heard Dean at all. "Your mom… you don't like her either… why is that, Dean?"

Dean growled, a rumbling rising in his throat as he realised what Michael was doing.

" _Okay_ ," he declared harshly, standing loudly by stamping his foot on the planks of the deck, fed up with the invasive questions Michael asked in his infuriatingly calm voice. "I'm _done_ with this therapy session _Dr. Phil_. Go find someone else to psychoanalyse! I'm not here for your kicks, alright?! I just want to hurry up and get out of this hell-hole so people will stop looking at me like I'm some freak show or a _fucking_ wounded animal!"

"Dean," Michael protested, annoying Dean with how calm he remained. "You've got me all wrong, I'm not trying to―"

"Please!" He scoffed, cutting him off. "Spare me your well-intentioned words, we both know they're not true."

"I mean it." Michael protested further. "Dean, this is your home now. Your Mom and I just want you to be happy here, but you need to tell us if you're not. Tell us if you're unhappy. You're _family_."

All the younger could do was frown and refrain from continuing this pointless conversation. There was no way Michael meant those words. How stupid did he think Dean was? Hell, he hadn't been born yesterday!

"Whatever," he huffed, turning back to the front door and away from Michael. "You're the only one that thinks that anyway."

Dean grabbed hold of the door knob and returned inside, leaving a worried and conflicted Michael alone on the porch. He wasn't going to play games, not here, not with these people. _Family?_ Please! They weren't family. Family didn't end in blood, but didn't start there either. Family, Dean had learned, was who was there when it counted. Family had your back. So Michael could take his stripper-glitter coated words and stick 'em where the sun didn't shine, because he sure as _hell_ wasn't about to ride off into the sunset and daisy filled meadow and pretend this was his happy ending. Happy endings didn't exist, they were figments of the imagination and Dean didn't need anymore fantasies, he'd clung to those for too long already. In reality, it was more like he needed to wake up, see what was in front of him rather than allow his daydreams about a glorious, blessed, untroubled life that, in essence, didn't exist, take over the empty space in his mind.

Walking back through the front door, his mother instantly spotted him, informing him she'd show him to his room with a smile on her face that seemed a little broad for it to be genuine. Dean didn't object her offer, even though he was itching for a confrontation with her also and still feeling pleased about the state of shock he'd left Michael in. But, he let it go, too exhausted to have an argument now. Instead, he simply trudged after her, following up the staircase and through the first plain white door on the right. He already suspected she'd been listening to Michael and his conversation, and though he wasn't sure how―maybe she'd opened a window or something―the look in her eye told him she knew. She'd heard every word he'd said, but she was trying very hard to pretend it didn't upset her, at least a little, though God only knew why it would. Dean constantly needed to remind himself that this was the woman who'd abandoned him with the devil incarnate and left him to fend for himself in a world made up of demons. He needed to remember _that_ every time she smiled softly at him or offered him a kind word, because she'd crushed and shredded his heart before, and it was so bloody and painful every time he had to stitch and sew himself back up. He wasn't a ragdoll, though the world was trying its damnedest to turn him into one.

The room Mary showed him to was, for the most part, bare, but it was still more than he'd had in a long time. Spacious, clean, no trace of the funky smell that he knew from experience to be rotting rat. After spotting his out-of-place looking duffel in the corner of the room, Dean admitted to himself that it was… nice, though he immediately understood that this had been the spare room up until he'd arrived unannounced this afternoon anyway.

It took him less than three seconds to make it from the doorway to the bed and he flopped down onto it with an audible huff, his bangs rudely falling into his eyes. Yeah, he'd definitely need to cut his hair tomorrow, he remembered why he hated it long now, but he'd kept it this way in hopes that it might cover a least a little of his bruised eye. Fat lot of good that was doing though…

"Hey, Dean?"

Jerkily, he pushed himself upright and was surprised to see his mother still standing in the entranceway. He'd thought she would run off as quickly as she could, so it surprised him when she approached his bed and nestled herself at the foot, gaze downcast toward the floor.

"Dean do you…?" She quickly trailed off, obviously steeling herself, pushing to say the words and not dash off like a coward, though with a shaky breath, she managed to finish the full sentence.

"Dean do you really hate me?"

She looked up at him with desperation in his eyes, but he couldn't bring himself to deny or confirm it. He hadn't wanted her to know, didn't want her to work it out. Somewhere deep inside, he hadn't wanted to hurt her like this, by out rightly verbalising the words. He chose instead to say nothing, but what was left unspoken in that silence was as good as an answer anyway; he couldn't forgive her for what she'd done.

Rising from the creaking bed, she whispered a soft 'goodnight', flicked out the lights and closed the door with a soft click, the atmosphere heavy and taut with something that could only be described as a feeling of wounded hurt. He snuggled under the covers, mind pouring over the conversation and sleep refusing its presence, regardless of how he wished he could just fall into that blissful oblivion of black where unconsciousness would provide temporary relief from reality. He hadn't thought his mother's expression would cut him as deep as it had. He'd thought he could take it, but he had been wrong. He'd probably said a little too much to Michael earlier too, admitted too much. Dean was playing the game, or, at least he was trying, but he didn't want to complicate things by pretending to see feelings that weren't really there. Michael had said he was family, that his mom wanted him to be happy here, but while they were all good intentions, Dean just couldn't see them lasting. They'd quickly see what he was, a bitter, broken child who had no intention of repairing what was damaged, because there was zero possibility of him ever trusting them, and that was the basis of any relationship.


	2. Hello? What's Up?

**oOo**

 **oOo**

* * *

 **Chapter Two:**

Hello? What's Up?  
~

Morning dawned, the warm summer sunlight illuminating the entirety of Dean's cream coloured room, the constant, irritable chirping of tiny twittering birds outside his window haranguing his ears. A quiet groan escaped his parted lips and a weary sigh was unconsciously delivered from the back of his throat as he stretched out under the sheets and harshly rubbed away remnant little tears that had formed in the corners of his eyes, some time during the night. Sore and healing muscles protested as he slowly swung his stiff legs to the side, pushing them out from under the covers and pressing his feet downwards, extending his legs until his toes made contact with the lush carpet floor. Dean wiggled them, kneading the texture of the floor as he yawned and stretched his arms skyward, briefly reflecting on the nightmare he'd woken from. The images and sounds―still very fresh―swam around in his brain, but in his woken state, the distorted memories never seemed quite as scary or heartbreaking as when he was asleep. He could piece together bits of the dream, fragments still lingering in his mind. The parts where John shouts aggressively at him, the sound ricocheting off the thin walls of their transportable, asbestos home. _Some_ fragments are memories, twisted and larger than life, he knows, but memories all the same. His father's shouting of: " _This is all your fault!"_ nearly deafen Dean in his mind and the enraged: _"If you'd been a better son, Mary might've kept you!_ " make him want to crawl back under the covers and weep. Because he remembers this dream, this memory, the night his dad told him that his mom might've kept him if he'd just been _better_ , before he continued by lamenting the fact he got landed with Dean's sorry ass instead of the child he really wanted, Sam, obviously. He remembers swallowing noisily, thinking his dad didn't mean these things, he was just angry. He just _couldn't_ mean these things! This couldn't be the same man who'd taken Dean for rides in the Impala to the toy store or taught him how to catch a baseball, cheering him on when he made his first catch. This man wasn't his hero, this was a monster, a beast in the guise of his father. Except, most of the time, he's sure what his father said that night was true. If he'd been better, his mom might not have abandoned him, though there's really no point in thinking such things now. The past is the past, he cannot change what he is or who he was, he can't go back in time and beg for his mother to take him with her.

Both in memory and in the nightmare, John had stormed over to him, slamming the empty bottle of bourbon on the counter-top as he crossed the room. He recalls his dad seizing him by the scruff of his shirt and backhandedly smacking him across his face, something that Dean remembers left a visible bruise for the next week and a half.

" _You're useless, completely and utterly useless, you know that? You do nothing and you take all my money and eat all my food! You're the reason our family is in ruins! You're the_ thing _that made our perfectly happy family split apart, you ruined our futures', but even worse, you screwed everything up for Sammy too!"_ John had said to him, he remembers it clear as day, trying to swallow back tears but failing miserably against the rising tides of emotion swelling over the breakwater.

With a sigh, he let the vague, but familiar dream―and memory―fall away. All his dreams ran along the same theme, the same record playing, just a different song each time. Shaking his head and dismissing his depressing thoughts, he realised he hadn't changed out of his clothes last night. He stank, which meant he badly needed a shower, but the noisy gurgle of his stomach gave him reason to pause and deliberate, eventually deciding that a shower could wait until he'd stuffed himself with an A+ breakfast. After all, wasn't that supposed to be one of the perks now that he'd moved to his mom's? Waking up in the mornings only to discover that the cupboard was completely empty yet again had been the bane of his old life. Hunger was something you just couldn't escape, especially when living on whatever money could be scrounged up from between couch cushions.

"Dean?" A softly spoken word startled him out of his thoughts, his head whipping around to glimpse a boyish form hesitantly lurking behind the door. "Are you awake?"

"O-oh… Sam, it's you." He breathed with relief, sinking back down onto the bed.

For a moment he'd half expected his mother to walk through the door with her overly cheerful face and peppy personality. He wasn't sure he could deal with that so early in the morning. She was pretending everything was okay when it wasn't, or, at least she _had_ been before their brief, one-sided conversation last night. He wasn't sure what kind of reaction he'd receive when he saw her today, and that made him anxious. More than just a little, really.

The younger stepped through the doorway, slightly tentative in his movements, as though he were unsure if Dean would ask him to leave.

"Do you want some breakfast?" Sam asked, a sudden shyness in his tone as he linked his fingers together. "Mom's making pancakes if you want some…"

It was almost downright bleeding obvious that his mother had told Sam to be sensitive around him, and though she may not have given details, the reserved way Sam spoke told Dean all he needed to know about what words had been exchanged.

For Sam, he forced a wide smile, hoping to alleviate his younger brother's worried nerves by winking playfully. That's right, all he needed to do was act, lie. Pretend for Sammy just like he'd pretended to the world for so long. He had the ability to fabricate and falsify how much he was hurting, he could do it again here.

"Sounds great, Sammy." He nodded, hoping his smile didn't seem overly forced. "Just give me a minute to change my pants, I'll be right down."

Sam smiled back, Dean noting the obvious relief that surged across the younger's open expression as he bounded out of the room gleefully with all the enthusiasm of a child three times his junior. Heavy thuds echoed down the hallway stairs as he raced to the kitchen with a bounce in his step.

When he could no longer hear Sam's footsteps, Dean closed his eyes and sighed ashamedly, the strained smile immediately dropping from his face. _It was good see Sam_ _―_ that was all he'd allow himself to think today. He wouldn't think about troublesome things, he would keep his mind light, away from the pile of heavy, emotional shit that already occupied most of his brain. He would _try_ and enjoy himself, even if it was only just for one day. He wouldn't think about the past. He'd stay away from that crap, make new memories rather than dwell, like he usually did. He'd simply think of the moment he was in, because the present always seemed to bring less pain than what the past held and what the future promised.

Hopping out of the bed, he absentmindedly noticed the sound of music wafting up the hallway, the tune muffled and unidentifiable from his room, but there nonetheless. Digging through his bag, he found an acceptably "clean" pair of pants, if one could call any of his clothes clean―all his clothes stank, he couldn't deny that, but he'd wash them all soon, rid them of stale cigarette, mould and month old whiskey, and most importantly, the memory and smell of his dad which he couldn't get away from fast enough.

Pulling off all his shirts, he replaced them with one AC/DC band tee he'd stolen from a merch shop when he and Nick had both been having one of their more reckless days and rolled his shoulders, forcing his feet forward, one in front of the other as he steeled himself for the day ahead and what awaited him downstairs, be it good or bad.

He pulled open the bedroom door, footfalls muffled by aged carpet and to the people below, the music wafting around the kitchen. The music still remained unrecognisable, or at least it stayed that way until halfway down the stairs, when the melody of the song finally reached his ears.

His heart skipped a beat, knees shuddering and collapsing underneath him like snapped twigs. He was knocked back by the sheer force of the agonising nostalgia assaulting him as the lyrics washed over his entire being.

 _And any time you feel the pain…_

 _Hey Jude, refrain…_

 _Don't carry the world upon your shoulders..._

For at least a minute, he was unaware his butt had found the carpeted step or that his hands were shaking as they wiped away memories falling in the shape of little wet droplets down his cheeks. He swallowed the rising sob pushing its way up his chest and closed his eyes, trying to make the memories go away but only succeeding in letting them further in. His guard crumbled and he blanched a little as the memories swam to the front of his mind. He could practically _see_ the autumn leaves, his dad and Sammy playing jovially in them together, the music sighing through the air as his mom placed a steamy mug of cocoa in his shaking hands on that cold October morning. He wishedhe _couldn't_ see it, wished it didn't exist, because there was nothingmore heartbreaking than the memory of brilliant, bright happiness that he hadn't touched or seen in years. Except, it was all laid out in front of him, the song whisking him back to a time he never wanted to think about because of how much undeserved happiness it contained. He'd held so much hope in his tiny, little hands then, but things had changed, _people_ had changed, and there was no going back on that, ever. He'd seen too much, been through too much, _knew_ too much… He'd learned that happiness was nothing more than a fleeting dream, an idiot's prayer. _That_ time had been long before he'd known how cruel life was going to become, how worthless he now knew he was. He still didn't understand, but he knew if he tried to make sense out of the past, he'd only end up going in circles and making his head hurt. Why had his dad hated him so much after they left Mom and Sammy? He'd never understood how his dad, a man he'd looked up to, his number one idol that he'd put on a pedestal, had ended up such a resentful, uncaring monstrosity, and he didn't understand why his mom never came and rescued him from that! Yet, deep down, he knew he didn't want the answers to those painful questions because of how afraid he was, because of what he might find. He was scared that the reason things had turned out this way―the _problem_ _―_ didn't lie with them, it lay with him. He was scared that his dad had been right about him all along.

 _He was the reason his happy family had split apart._

"…Dean?"

Suddenly, his blood ran cold, freezing in his veins, time seeming to travel at noticeably slower rate as he spun his head round so fast that he almost gave himself whiplash. Wide-eyed, he locked gazes with Michael, standing at the top of the stairs with surprise written all over his face. The tears froze on Dean's face, the few still desperately clinging to his eyelashes dropping away immediately to the carpet below, his mind racing and stalling all at the same time. He'd been caught defenceless, unwittingly discovered with his walls down. He hadn't thought anyone was still upstairs, he'd assumed they all were in the kitchen or the dinning room. That had been a stupid mistake, a rookie error, of all people he shouldknow better, he'd been caught by surprise enough times to know what the cost could be, the consequences it could have.

He paled and a strange, strangled noise escaped from his mouth, a choked sound, cut off as soon as he realised he'd made it. Pushing his wobbly legs into standing and backing up against the side of the staircase that met the wall, he silently prayed Michael would ignore what he'd just seen, unlikely as that would inevitably be. Lady luck was never on his side, he didn't know why he hoped she would be today.

Michael moved down the stairs slowly, taking one step at a time and approaching Dean as though he were a timid animal, coming to stop in front of him with a hand half-heartedly extending towards Dean's arm in what he guessed was supposed to be a supportive, comforting gesture.

"Hey, it's alright, you're safe, it's okay…" Michael blabbered, sounding like he was simply trying to find a string of words that would convince Dean he was fine, that everything was fine, when it so obviously wasn't.

"NO! It's not!" He screamed, smacking Michael's hand away violently and shocking the older with the force of his blow. He wasn't some wounded animal and he refused to let himself be treated like one! Yes, things still hurt, the pain was still there, but he didn't want people looking at him differently. He didn't want people to treat him like he couldn't defend himself, because he could! He didn't _need_ their sympathies, didn't want them, and letting his guard down had been an egregious error on his part, one he was determined never to repeat.

Michael stayed paralysed for a second, stunned by the outburst until a shuffle of feet was heard from downstairs, the music abruptly pausing and making Dean feel as though the world had stopped all around him. It was the absence of McCartney's vocals that really jolted Dean out of his aggressive stupor and he stumbled down a few of the staircase steps, anger abating as he realised with a sharp pang that he'd actually _hit_ Michael. The older remained unmoved, watching, a little stunned, at the mixture of horror, shock and guilt morphing into one another on Dean's face.

Dean sucked in a hasty breath through his teeth, a sharp edge to the sound as he stammered out his next few words.

"I… I'm sorry…" He stuttered, wrapping his arms around his midriff as he continued down the stairs, backing away from Michael, as though he was afraid he'd lash out again. "That was…"

He _wanted_ to say it had been an accident, but he couldn't, because that would be a lie. Lashing out like this had once simply been _defending_ himself, but that's not what it was anymore, because what was he defending against exactly?

"Honey?"

Dean whipped his head around again, this time to see Sam and his mom hovering in the doorway, both of them looking a little confused and a little bit shocked, their concerned eyes flicking between Michael and him. Shame started to wheedle its way up his spine and he dropped his gaze, looking anywhere but at Sam.

The pet name was not directed at him this time. Dean could see his mother looking in the other direction, checking that Michael was okay before turning her attention onto Dean. He already knew who she'd made room for in her heart and it wasn't him. He'd _known_ this, but for some reason, her looking toward Michael before him made that pithy realisation sink further in, like a splinter in his skin. It was far more painful than he'd expected it to be when, for a moment, he'd thought she'd been speaking to him. At some point between yesterday when he'd arrived and now, he'd obviously started to believe she still held _something_ in her heart for him. Okay, maybe it wasn't love, but maybe just a hint of concern? Or perhaps the answer was that he'd never fully let go of that flickering hope he thought he'd bitterly crushed a long time ago.

Michael sighed, letting out a tense breath and relaxing a little as he made his way down the stairs, eyes never leaving Dean's profile.

"It's _alright,_ Dean." He assured, staring him straight in the eye and giving him a little smile. "I know you didn't mean it. I snuck up on you anyway, so really it's my fault. I'm sorry."

Dean cast his gaze to the floor, squeezing his eyes shut as he tried to keep out the apology he didn't deserve. Why the hell was Michael apologising anyway? It wasn't his fault, his words were false, completely untrue. It had been _Dean's_ fault and everyone could tell by the guilt-ridden look on his face. Why was Michael claiming the blame? Did he expect something from Dean, or was it something else? What did Michael want from him?

Before he'd even realised it, a hand found his shoulder and he unconsciously shied away from it until he looked up at met the person to whom it belonged.

"Breakfast?" Mary asked, blue eyes softening as he searched her gaze.

He said nothing, but made a little jerky movement which could've possibly be taken as a nod, and she smiled gently, leading the way to the kitchen with Sam, Dean and Michael all in tow.

 **OoOoO**

"More sugar?"

"Thanks."

Dean watched Sam pass the tiny bowl of white sugar across the table to Michael, but remained quiet as he observed their interactions. Michael sprinkled the sugar over his pancake as Sam reached for the maple syrup beside him and his mother sat opposite, cutting her strawberry jam covered pancake in preparation for eating. Dean had barely touched his, but after what he'd done this morning…

The pool of guilt filling his stomach left no room for anything else. He'd been hungry before, but now he couldn't find the motivation or the room to put anything in his squeezed stomach. It honest to god made him feel ill. The anxious feeling made him feel like he could hardly stomach juice let alone actual _food_.

"Dean, you've hardly eaten anything…" his mother sighed, setting down her knife and fork and observing disapprovingly as she stared. "Would you prefer something else?"

He shook his head, rolling up his plain pancake and shoving it in his mouth without grace or manners. The flavour was bland, but even if he'd actually put a topping on it, he wasn't sure it would have made any difference―everything was flavourless when you were a clumpy wad of shame, and it felt almost disgusting to feel the food slide down his oesophagus inch by inch.

"You don't have to eat if you don't want to, Dean." She clucked disapprovingly, brow furrowing further, his mouth too stuffed to reply. "I'm not going to make you."

He simply shook his head again, the message somewhat ambiguous as he took another pancake from the stack and threw it onto his plate, pretending to carefully observe the condiment selection before reaching out and grabbing the nearest thing to him, which turned out to be blackberry jam. He finished chewing and swallowed his previous pancake before glancing up for the first time and realising with a jolt that his mother was staring at him again.

"W-what?" He jerked back in his seat, immediately defensive.

"No," she pursed her lips, diverted her eyes and cut another obtuse triangle out of her round strawberry jam topped pancake. "…nothing."

Dean wasn't entirely sure what that meant, but he let it go, unscrewing the lid of the jam jar instead as the room fell silent, the conversation reaching a lull, the only sound the clinking of metal knifes and forks on plates.

"I'm going to call the school first thing Monday and see what time I can get a meeting." His mother stated, breaking through the silence with her feminine voice as she took another bite of her pancake, turning back to Dean again. "Hopefully the principle will understand the situation so we can get you back to school as quickly as possible. I also think it would be a really good idea if you came with me, Dean. I think it would be good for you to visit the school, see if there are any clubs you want to join."

His stomach suddenly dropped, memories of time spent at his last school swimming in his vision. He didn't want the principle to see him and make first judgements before he'd even started. He didn't want to be looked at and judged to be a slacker, a detention-aire, a no-good kid who had zero prospects for his future. He knew all this, he didn't need it told to him by anybody else. He'd avoided his old school like the plague for this exact reason, doing just enough work to scrape through. This school would be no different. He was stupid anyway, it hadn't and wouldn't matter how often he attended classes. Sure, when the end of the semester arrived and his family received his report card, he'd be a huge disappointment, but what was new there? Dean Winchester was already the family reject, the outcast, he was already a disappointment and he couldn't change that, nothing would change that, no matter how hard he tried or prayed to the sadistic god his mother worshipped.

"It's okay," he muttered. "I don't want to join any clubs."

"I can show you around on Monday as well!" Sam chipped in brightly, obviously unaware of his lightly muttered sentence, eyes shinning with barely veiled excitement as Dean snapped his attention to the younger. "The middle school and high school are combined campuses here."

Dean managed to curl the corners of his mouth, an effort, but it seemed to reassure his little brother sitting across the table.

"I guess it could be… useful." He eventually managed to say, earning him an unwanted look of fondness from his mother.

Sam grinned widely, reaching across the table to grab a quarter slice of lemon to squeeze onto the sugar sitting on his pancake.

"It'll be fun!"

Dean snorted, amused by the thought that school could ever be 'fun'.

"Yeah, okay nerd. Go stick your nose in a book or something."

Sam merely rolled his eyes, smile still lingering in his expression good-naturedly.

"I'm sure you're just not reading the _right_ books, Dean… and studying can be fun, so long as you're enjoying what you're learning about."

"Yeah, yeah," he waved his hand, looking down at his food with a tiny smile on his lips. "Eat your breakfast, bookworm."

Sam's lips twitched and he gave a hiccup of a laugh before taking a sizable bite out of his food.

It was really good to have Sammy around again. He'd been missing the younger Winchester, of course, but he hadn't realised quite how much. Sammy was the sun, not just _his_ sun, but the light-bringer into his mom and his dad's lives as well. Sam had always known how to lighten the mood and he gave so much of himself to the world around him, it was no wonder people had consistently gravitated towards his radiant glow since before Dean could even remember. Sam was the natural remedy that perked you up, but Dean was the pill that slammed you head first back to the ground. Sam could live without Dean, he could remain peaceful like this for years. The sun didn't need the earth to sustain it, but for the earth to sustain anything, it required the sun. Dean's world was empty, barren and bleak, because the sun had been missing for too long. There was no life in Dean's world anymore, and what had been there originally had withered away to ash and dust. Everything was grey and there was nothing worth salvaging, nothing of meaning in his tiny, inconsequential life.

"Dean…?"

Glancing up again, he met Sam's eyes, face unburdened with the lines and winkles that age brought and living through hard-knocks gave.

"I'm glad you're back." He whispered, diverting his eyes as a soft blush of embarrassment coloured his boyish cheeks.

Dean chuckled quietly and gave a tiny nod of appreciation, deeply touched by his brother's words.

"Thanks Sam," he murmured, that same tiny smile dancing on his lips again. "I'm glad I'm here too."

Sam ducked his head as Dean became aware of the other two people in the room paying close attention to their conversation. He quickly shut himself off, bottling up again and silently stiffening as he glimpsed a small exchange between Michael and his mother. He shouldn't have said that in front of them. He would rather his mother return to ignoring him than he give her reason to keep up her false façade, her pretence of care and concern.

Michael suddenly pushed back his chair and everyone at the table looked up as he started clearing away dirty dishes.

"Hey, Sam, when you're done, would you help me do the dishes, buddy?"

Sam nodded, finishing his mouthful before adding, "Yeah, sure."

"Thanks." He replied, heading off into the kitchen, his hands burdened with plates.

Sam wasn't long after him, but it was only after the pair made themselves scarce, hiding in the kitchen, did Dean realise that Michael had done it on purpose. Mary had wanted time alone with him, time to talk one on one with her eldest son. It pissed him off a little that he hadn't realised this sooner.

"Would you come outside with me?" She asked, her lips twitching into half a smile, but her blue eyes holding a wearisome sadness as she posed the question. "I want to ask you something… and I think it's better if we discuss this, just you and me."

Dean raised an eyebrow, but pushed his chair back away from the table without any objections. He was a little curious, but he pushed down the fluttering of butterflies that accompanied his nervousness.

Mary led the way out onto the front porch, the warm, summer breeze casually drifting past, even in the early morning and Dean immediately settled himself against the railing opposite the bench, his new favourite place, before Mary cautiously joined him.

He was the picture of self-control and cool as he stood there, arms folded and elbows resting on the railing, but he'd perfected his outward appearance, learned to always mask what he was feeling― most especially when he was scared or afraid. And he _was_ afraid. This was surely the part where she would say she could no longer stand having him in her home. He'd hit Michael this morning after all, she probably wanted nothing to do with him.

"Dean," she half-huffed, half-sighed. "Last night, after you and Sam went to bed, Michael and I discussed some…

 _things_."

The young man clenched his jaw, grip tightening imperceptibly on his sleeves. His mom was attempting to mask her expression, hide her true feelings from Dean. Unfortunately for both of them, her nervousness showed through, only making Dean more anxious as he waited for her to force out the words.

"We thought that…"

Dean shut his eyes tightly and tried to block out the world. ' _Just tell me…_ ' he thought, hoping this would not drag out. But he didn't interrupt or stop her, he swallowed the words down and waited, even knowing what the tone of her voice meant; the regretful sound of someone apologising for something yet to happen, someone delivering bad news of which they were unaffected by.

"We thought that you… that you…"

"Whatever you have to say, I'd prefer if you'd just say it straight…" He said defeatedly when she paused, opening his eyes as he went back to staring straight across the lawn, mentally preparing himself for whatever blow she could possibly strike against him. He'd known this was coming, hadn't he? Yesterday's reintroductions had been a disaster, he'd yelled at his mom and he'd basically told Michael that he would never consider himself part of this family, so why bother trying to pretend? It was all wasted effort in the end.

A lump rose in his throat, but there was nothing he could do about it. This wasn't up to him, it had _never_ been up to him and he cursed himself inwardly for momentarily forgetting that.

Mary reached out, her hand lightly brushing over the shoulder of his shirt hesitantly before she hardened her resolve and placed her hand there deliberately, ignoring the tiny flinch Dean gave.

"Fine," she said. "The truth is that Michael and I are really worried about you, Dean. I don't know what life was like with your dad, neither of us do and… to be honest, that scares me a little. I'm scared he's hurt you more deeply than you'd be willing to admit and I'm concerned about you, really. I'm worried about your relationship with this family and I'm worried you think you don't belong here, that you won't _trust_ us to do the right thing by you."

She was right, he _didn't_ belong here. His mind was screaming it at him constantly and had been ever since he'd arrived. This perfect life where nothing ever happened wasn't him and he didn't deserve this! He was soiled and worthless and the truth his mother so clearly neglected was that she hadn't wanted him here anyway! He wasn't here by her choice, he was here because he had no one else to go to. So no, he _couldn't_ trust her to do the right thing by him. She never had before.

"So, Michael and I have come to a decision," she continued, Dean bracing himself for the hard knock and the rush of air he knew would leave his lungs. "We're going to try family counselling."

He blinked.

 _What?_

His breathing was still even, but his grip on the railing slackened.

Nothing earth-shattering had struck him, but it all felt wildly different now. Confusing.

"What?" He eventually managed the croak, finding his lost voice.

His mind reeled, wondering how they'd reached this conversation; wondering how Michael and his mother had reached such a conclusion.

"Sam doesn't have to come of course, not if you don't want him to." Mary continued, not missing a single beat as she hurried to explain herself, the words tumbling one after another, nearly tripping over themselves in their hurry to rush out. "Though I'm sure he'd like to because I _know_ he's worried about you."

There was a pregnant pause and the air between them became thick and heavy. Before he really noticed, his whole world had become something as fragile as glass. But she hadn't broken it, she'd simply warped it into a thing he didn't recognise nor know what to do with.

"You're serious." He asked, dropping his gaze to meet hers.

He studied her eyes; her face. He looked for the hidden motive, the objective, but when he could find none, he recoiled. What he could see in her eyes was something he didn't deserve. He knew that. But it was hard to push the reciprocating feeling back into the black box where it belonged. All he could see was _love_.

 _No. No. There had to be a deception here._

His world snapped back, recoiling like a spring. It was like he'd caught a boomerang barehanded, a baseball without a glove, a punch straight to the nose.

"I'm serious." She confirmed, her own nervousness melting away and only leaving the emotion that Dean couldn't stand to look at.

How could he accept it? It went against everything he knew! _EVERYTHING!_ He couldn't accept it! There were so many walls built one on top of the other and simply being in ' _Sam's_ _'_ presence was pulling them down faster than he could build them back up. He could hardly imagine how quickly they would come down if he accepted his mother's reality.

"I'm… not sure I get it." He replied, shaking his head. "Why do we need family counselling? I think I've expressed how I feel."

"I… know." She hesitated haltingly. "But Dean, I think we can make this work. If… if we _try_."

He didn't know what made him jerk his head, a strange, broken nod, or why he whispered: ' _okay',_ but reality happened faster than he could process it and his mother on the receiving end gave him a smile of reassurance that he just couldn't dismiss.

* * *

For Dean, sitting outside the principle's office on Monday morning at nine o'clock was horrible. It made his insides twist with anxiety and he wasn't entirely sure where this odd fear was coming from. He'd never been nervous to meet people before, but he was today. If he questioned the fear, he was afraid of what it would answer back, so he swallowed it down into his stomach and tried to keep it there.

Sam, bless the little dude, had given Dean a reassuring thumbs up and a _"knock 'em dead!"_ before he'd dashed off to class with a broad grin spread across his face, leaving Dean by himself, his mother being already inside the principle's had no doubt that his little bro would run off and tell all his friends that his older brother was enrolling, which would jump start the rumours about him, he was sure. He wasn't new to high school though. He could douse rumours like he could set fire to gasoline―which was something he'd had a lot of practice at―not to mention he could throw a punch with the best of them, if need be. It was best not to cause too much noticeable trouble in the first week though. He didn't care about _his_ reputation or grades, but if it was going to affect Sam's life here, then he was going to give trouble as wide of a berth as he could. He'd just do what he'd been planning to do all along. Keep his head down, keep his grades just above a fail and drop out as soon as he was able. Then he'd move to another state and life would be good. He'd bother no one and no one would bother him.

"Dean?"

A soft, feminine voice made his head whip around, and it pulled him from his thoughts. Eyes landing on a thin woman, he observed her dark skin and curls that fell in soft waves, framing her face as she spoke gently to him.

"The principle would like you to join them now."

He acknowledged her with a jerky nod and slid off the chair. He was sure he'd end up here again, sitting on this exact chair outside the same office… it was really just a matter of when and why; for all the good intentions he had about not getting into too much trouble, there was always one or two fights that you just couldn't avoid.

Walking straight through the assistant's office, he reached a frosted glass door which he pushed open, leading to a clean, boring, but official-looking office.

"Ah, you must be Dean," said a woman, standing as Dean closed the door behind him and outstretching her hand for him to shake as he dropped into a chair opposite her desk and beside his mother. "I'm Mrs. Harvelle. It's good to meet ya, please make yourself comfortable."

"Hi…" he answered awkwardly, unsure if he was supposed to say anything at all and immediately thrown by how casually she'd greeted him.

The principle had dirty-blonde, shoulder length hair that just rested on her casual blue shirt, and her deep brown eyes were full of kindness and sincerity, though Dean could tell he wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of her glare―which he was sure he would be, eventually. The lines on her face spoke of the battles she'd fought and he had no doubt that she'd won her fair share of fights, both physical and mental. This was a woman who looked like she knew how to throw a punch and somehow, that comforted him.

"Your mom's told me your situation," she continued, addressing him with her gazed locked and her voice even, authority barely veiled under her tone. "And we're more than happy to accommodate."

He watched her eyes flicker briefly to his mother, but they quickly returned to him as she reclined in her chair.

"You've got a brother here, don't ya?"

"Mhhm," he grunted, nodding. "Sam. Sam Winchester. He's a middle schooler."

He knew his mother would have already said all this, but being able to tell her himself made him feel a little more secure in his position.

"Right, I know him. Good kid. Bright and a brilliant sportsman too, right?"

Dean looked down at his lap and let himself smile a little, loving the praise his little brother continued to receive from so many people. He hid his expression from his mom, though he knew the principle could see his face and was looking at him with a hint of understanding. For some, unexplainable reason, he felt like she knew where he was coming from, like she understood what he'd been through, even though he logically knew that she understood nothing.

"So I'm told." He answered, looking back up and receiving a twitch of a smile before Mrs. Harvelle glanced over at her computer monitor.

"So," she continued. "I've contacted your previous school and they've sent me all your records and information, so there's really nothing for you to worry about there, but we don't teach the Nutrition subject here, so you can go into either Home Economics or Biology. Both fit, which one would you prefer?"

"Home Ec." He replied almost immediately. There was no way he could take Biology. He was too stupid for that. Home Economics was more up his alley anyway, there'd be no need for him to know anything about Biology, especially since he wasn't planning on going to college. He didn't have a college fund anyway. Whatever savings fund he _might_ have had as a child had been drunk away little at a time by his dad, so he was pretty confident that whatever was left in there was about as useless to him as Biology would be.

"Okie dokie." The principle replied, tapping away at her keyboard distractedly. "You'll receive your timetable on your first day and… uh...unfortunately we cannot show you around the school until you're official enrolled―security, you see―so you'll have to wait until Monday for that, but, um, that's about all I think."

She finished typing on the keyboard and turned back to them, a soft smile on her face.

"It's good to have met you, Dean." She said, standing and shaking his hand before doing the same with his mother. "And it's nice to see you again Ms. Campbell."

"Likewise." Mary replied, releasing Mrs. Harvelle's hand.

Dean said his goodbye to her and followed his mother out the door and back through the assistants office.

"So," his mother started, the two of them walking back down the same hallway they'd followed Sam through. "How are you feeling about school now that we're here? Nervous? Excited?"

He shrugged.

"I… don't really care." He replied, missing the way she recoiled with shock. "It's just school."

Her brow furrowed.

"You… keep saying these things, Dean, but I remember that you used to _love_ school. You used to have so many friends and you were so bubbly when you came home, telling me all about your day―"

"Yeah, well, it's different now." He snapped, shortly. "Hell, I don't know why I have to keep telling you that."

Mary pushed the open the door and they both stepped out into the morning sun, the heat already starting to climb.

"Well, I don't know what you want me to do!" She responded, frustrated. "I'm _trying,_ Dean. I don't know what you need from me, but I'm trying to understand."

"I don't need anything from _you!_ " He rounded on her, hiding his distress with his anger. "I'd rather be in a foster home than living with you!"

She stopped at that, her feet suddenly frozen in place, despite the warm weather. Dean stopped with her and immediately regretted his words, wishing he could take them back after seeing the look on her face.

"You… don't mean that." She stammered, forcing herself to move again.

He looked at the ground, guilt rising within him. She was right, he didn't mean that, but he didn't want her to climb any further inside his heart. God only knew how much it would hurt when she broke it again.

They climbed into the car, silence ringing loudly between them for the entire trip home.

When they reached the house, Dean almost ripped the door handle off trying to get to his room, not a single word exchanged with his mother.

Collapsing on the bed, he immediately broke. The tears were silent, but they were there nonetheless. He knew why he was nervous this morning now. It was because he didn't want to disappoint her. He didn't want to fuck up again, but he had. She didn't need anymore reasons to hate him, he'd given her so many already. Whatever tiny chance he'd had of one day winning her love he'd shattered. He was stupid like that. He was everything his dad had said, useless, stupid, a waste of space. Yet, for some reason he couldn't give up the fragment of hope that said she would love him again, maybe, one day. Everything was so different here. Nothing like his dad's. At least he always knew where he stood in his father's eyes, his mother's, he wasn't so sure.

There came a knock on his door and then, "Dean?"

He froze, the sound of the door creaking open causing panic to rise in his chest.

She couldn't see him like this― _cry_ _ing,_ like the pathetic piece of shit he was _―_ but it all happened too fast, he met her clear gaze with his startled one, her image blurred through the tears in his eyes.

"Get out!" He yelled, almost a knee-jerk reaction, throwing a pillow at her and completely freaked that she'd seen his moment of weakness.

"I'm not going anywhere." She responded firmly, catching the pillow and letting it drop to the floor.

She sat down upon his bed, her gentle eyes boring holes into him. Dean feared that her gaze alone might crush him, because her actions were nothing but kind and that made him scared. _Of what?_ He asked himself, but he didn't know. Maybe he was afraid that it was all a lie, like he'd always assumed. Her kindness and care was a lie, that she would reject him, still. Except, even worse than that, he was scared that it _wasn't_. That her kindness was genuine, but then that brought up that one question that had been ravaging his brain since he'd seen his mother again for the first time in three years.

 _Why hadn't she saved him? She hadn't even_ tried _to call him! Why!? She'd promised._

"We need to talk, Dean. I mean, really talk, not just a one-sided conversation on my part while you shut out everything I have to say and ignore me."

"Okay, fine." He replied, sitting up straight, clutching a different pillow to his chest as he brought his knees up and quickly wiped away the tears. "Let's talk then."


End file.
